


Zimmermann’s 6

by numinousnumbat



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Heist, M/M, Swearing, and i needed a bad guy and kent was it, no one is especially good in here, omgcp big bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 04:33:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16654330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/numinousnumbat/pseuds/numinousnumbat
Summary: When Bad Bob Zimmermann stole the Stanley Cup in 1991, he forever changed the luck of his son, Jack. Now Jack’s boyfriend, Kent Parson of the Providence Falconers, is asking Jack to steal the Cup for him, and Jack’s going to need to put a team together to pull this off.Heist AU where they’re not hockey players at Samwell.





	Zimmermann’s 6

**Author's Note:**

> My first Big Bang, hooray! 
> 
> Thank you to my artist [ctrlpunk](https://ctrlpunk.tumblr.com/). You captured this story perfectly, and I love both of these pieces so much. Poster is [here](https://ctrlpunk.tumblr.com/post/180222336589/for-the-omgcpbbmore-heres-my-second-art-for) and moodboard is [here](https://ctrlpunk.tumblr.com/post/180222390074/jack-aeshtic-board-for-numinousnumbat-zimmermann). 
> 
> Thank you to my beta nk-echi. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone in the Slack chat for answering questions and for collectively knowing just about everything there is to know about hockey and this comic. 
> 
> Thank you to the moderators for organizing this, it's been fun.

****

 

**1 / JACK**

“Hey Zimmermann, the janitor called in sick, so can you clean the barf out of the locker room?” Coach Hall asked. “Heard it was a doozy,” he laughed to himself as he escaped back into his office, the door clicking loudly as it shut. With a sigh, Jack grabbed cleaning supplies from the closet and turned to head into the locker room, as Coach Hall poked his head out of the office again. “I’ve gotta go do a thing, can you lock up?” he said and threw his keys to Jack without waiting for a response.

Jack sighed again. It had already been a long day, and now it was going to be a long night. He was an assistant coach for the local Samwell Pee Wee hockey team, which meant he spent a lot of time with some awesome kids -

“Oh, Coach Jack! Coach Jack!”

\- and their awful mothers.

“Mrs. Smith, hello,” Jack said, attempting to smile and failing miserably.

“Coach Jack, I just wanted to thank you for all of the work you’re doing with Dustin,” Mrs. Smith said, running a hand through her hair. “And I wanted to see if there was any way that you could stop by our house and pick up that permission slip like you did last time?”

Last time Mrs. Smith had answered the door in neon pink lingerie, a cocktail, and the words “My ex-husband signed the divorce papers last week.”

“We have copies of the permission slip in the office,” Jack said. “You can fill it out while you’re waiting for Dustin to change.”

“But I already filled out the one at home,” she said, attempting a wink that was more of a blink. “Just stop by anytime after 9 tonight.”

“And the trip to the Falconers’ stadium isn’t until next week, so we have plenty of time to get that turned in, right?” Jack said desperately.

“I think we both know where you want to be tonight,” she said, trailing her hand from his shoulder to his hip and Jack knew where that hand was going, and he jumped back.

“I have puke to clean,” he said and turned to go into the boys locker room. Puke to the rescue.

He finally had a chance to check his phone as he was leaving an hour later than scheduled.

_K: Come over at 9_

Jack’s heart fluttered as he immediately deleted the message. He’d only been with Kent Parson a few months, but it had been the best few months of his life. Kent was on the Providence Falconers, called up from the farm team after Jonesy tore his ACL. Kent didn’t get a lot of ice time, yet, Jack was constantly telling him how great he was and how soon the coaches would recognize his talent and give him more playing time.

Kent was a natural, a joy to watch on the ice, but he hadn’t figured out how to work as part of a team. He had been one of the best in the Quebec Major Junior Hockey League, drafted into the NHL and then … nothing. He and Jack were the same age and it was strange to think that if Jack hadn’t been plagued with injuries as a kid that he might have played against Kent, or even _with_ Kent if they’d been on the same team.

It was a big week for Kent, a huge week. The Falconers had won the Conference Finals yesterday, and were gearing up to play the Aces in Las Vegas for the Stanley Cup finals starting in a few days. They’d be back to Providence for the next two games, and Coach Hall had gotten word that they’d be able to take their Pee Wee kids on a tour of the stadium, meet a couple of the players, and see the Stanley Cup on display.

Jack stopped for a moment, imagining what it would be like to introduce Kent, a real life NHL player, as his boyfriend. People would love Kent, and then Jack could talk about all of the kids he worked with and people would love Kent even more. Although NHL players might connect Jack with his dad, which was something Jack tried to avoid as much as possible. But it was time to go, Kent had made time in his hectic schedule for Jack tonight and Jack needed to head down to Providence.

Jack was going to have to skip a shower in order to make the 40-minute drive to Kent’s condo. Jack technically still lived with his mom, but spent quite a few nights at Kent’s. Not as many as either of them would like since Kent needed to be discreet about his love life as he wasn't out. Jack didn’t mind, much. It would be nice if he could leave a toothbrush or a sweatshirt at Kent’s place, but Kent was a stickler. Don’t leave anything behind, don’t save texts, and definitely don’t go anywhere in public together.

Luckily they were compatible in bed.

Jack made it to Kent’s by 9:30, not bad. Hopefully he could use Kent’s shower because he smelled like sweat and cleaning chemicals.

Kent buzzed him in. His condo smelled good, like burgers maybe, and Jack eyed the empty ketchup packets. “You know I couldn’t buy two, right?” Kent said, standing as he walked back to his bedroom. “I was with Marty and Thirdy.”

“Sure, I understand,” Jack reassured him, loving the casual way Kent just dropped his teammates’ names into conversation. Imagine being on a first-name basis with those guys!

Kent threw his shorts at Jack as he disappeared into his bedroom. Jack caught them easily and followed.

Later, as Jack and Kent were basking in the afterglow, Jack thought about how lucky he was to have Kent and how good and right it felt when they were together. Jack could be an amazing partner to Kent, he knew it. He knew hockey almost as well as Kent and he knew the pressure of being in the NHL. Family skate day would be so much fun since Jack’s day job was coaching kids, so he’d be the best at skating with the players’ kids. 

Kent cleared his throat, he was gearing up to say something. He sometimes needed Jack to leave early, which was fine, but Jack preferred it when it was ok for him to spend the night, even if it made his commute in the morning extra long. Kent still had his arm on Jack; the cuddling was nice.

“You ever thought about it?” Kent asked. He rubbed his thumb against Jack’s arm.

Moving in? Getting married? Jack’s heart fluttered. “A-about what?” he stammered.

Kent turned his head to look Jack square in the face. “Stealing the Stanley Cup.”

 

**2 / KENT**

Kent Parson had had a rough practice. He’d asked Coach Georgia, the assistant coach, what he needed to do to get more game time on the ice. She’d told him he needed to be faster, pass to his teammates more, and just be better.

“You’re a talented player,” she had said. “And I think next year - if we’re able to keep you up here - when we have 82 games between us and the Finals, you’re going to get more time. But now isn’t the time for us to put out anything but our most consistent players. You’re young, you have the time to develop the skills and we’re proud you’re developing those skills here.”

Kent’s life sucked. Here he was playing for a team in the Stanley Cup Finals and unless there were a lot more injuries, he wasn’t even going to get to put his name on the Cup. It was so unfair. He’d probably be traded to, like, Columbus or some other equally terrible place.

He was replaying the worst parts of the conversation over and over in his head as he walked to his Porsche, which is probably why he didn’t see Foster and his two henchmen until it was too late. Everyone else was long gone; he should have known better than to be on his own, not when he owed so much gambling debt.

“Hey, Foster,” Kent said, looking around. He could probably outrun Foster, but those two henchmen he had with him were a different story.

“Kent Parson,” Foster said. “Long practice tonight.”

“Something like that,” Kent said. He squared his shoulders. “I was talking to the coaches about getting more ice time now that we’re in the playoffs.”

“Not this season, and I’d _bet_ on it.” Foster barked out a laugh, and his two henchmen did the same. “Not that we’re accepting any more bets from you.” The smile had been completely wiped from his face.

Kent’s heart was beating fast. “I’m getting you the money,” he said. “You know I’m good for it.”

“Great, then this is going to go easier than I expected,” Foster said. “You have two weeks to pay me back the one million you owe me for your Great British Bake Off bet. So if my math is correct -” he made a show of turning to one of the henchmen and the henchman nodding back to him - “that’s due on the fifth game of the Finals, which we also hope is a good day for the Falcs.” He turned back to the henchman who shrugged. “Actually, most people in the area are betting for the Falcs, so we’re hoping you lose.” Foster hit Kent hard on the shoulder and Kent tried not to wince. He was a professional athlete, he could take a hit. “No hard feelings.”

Stupid Great British Bake Off. He’d loved Ian, how was he to know that Nadiya was going to win? It had seemed a sure thing, and every week, he kept upping his bet. And then there at the season finale, Nadiya had won taking with it a million dollars of Kent’s hard-earned money. Not that Kent had anywhere near a million dollars.

“It’s going to be hard to gather up that much liquid assets in that time,” Kent said haltingly. “I mean, that’s a lot of dough.”

Foster nodded politely. “Well, if you need the incentive, you should know that Pawtucket over here is going to start breaking fingers.” One of the henchmen cracked his knuckle threateningly, the sound felt as loud as a gunshot. “Or maybe Woonsocket over here is going to release your browser history publicly.” The other henchman waved his mobile phone at Kent.

Kent’s blood ran cold and he paled. “I’ll take the broken finger.” Those healed in a couple of weeks, right?

Foster threw his head back in a laugh. “We weren’t actually giving you a choice, Parsey. But now we know what to start with, and it ain’t fingers.”

“Fuck,” Kent said.

“This shouldn’t be a problem, right?” Foster said. “You said you were good for the money.”

“I just need more time,” Kent said. “Me and the Falcs are going to be busy winning the Cup -”

“Tell you what, I’d accept the Stanley Cup, the actual Cup,” Foster said, “in lieu of the money you owe me.” He stepped back and Kent hurried to get in his car, his hands fumbling with the keys.

“One more thing,” Foster said. Kent looked at him. “Don’t call me to bail you out when you get caught.” He laughed and he and his two henchmen walked away from him.

Kent was shaking. He needed a burger and sex. He texted Jack, deleted the message and ordered a burger to go from the diner down the street.

Kent let himself into his condo and ate his burger at the coffee table. Where was Jack? He sighed. It would have been easier in some ways to get a fuck buddy that lived closer, but this way Jack was less likely to just stop by. It was worth it, although sitting here watching old episodes of “Friends,” he was still stuck in his head and thinking about the money.

He couldn’t sell his Porsche, he owed more on it than it was worth. Same with this condo. Maybe he could let Foster borrow his car for a while as an interest payment? His mom’s house was probably worth $250K, she’d sell it for her son, right?

Maybe he could find a sugar daddy on grindr? Or what about Jack, he didn’t have any money, but maybe his mom did. He’d never thought to ask what Jack’s mom did for a living.

Now here was an interesting fact about Jack, Jack’s dad was actually Bad Bob Zimmermann, notorious Stanley Cup thief. Well, would-be-thief, he’d gotten caught soon after grabbing the Cup and fleeing. Kent wondered if Jack had any of that criminal DNA in him.

The buzzer sounded, must be Jack, _finally_.

After their roll in the hay and before Kent reminded Jack it was time to go, Kent put his arm around Jack - Jack loved cuddling - and launched his plan. “You ever thought about it?” Kent asked, mind on the one million big ones he owed Foster.

Jack gave him a strange look. “About what?” he stuttered.

Kent looked Jack square in the face. “Stealing the Cup.”

“Câlice,” Jack swore, rolling back and facing the ceiling. “Of course not, you know that’s how my dad ended up in prison.”

Kent was annoyed. He needed Jack’s help and Jack wasn’t even considering it. It was time to pull out the big guns.

“If we had the Stanley Cup, we could sell it and take that money to run away and be together,” Kent said. “What do you think about that, just me and you living in a cabin somewhere?”

Jack’s heart was beating fast. “You mean it?”

“Of course, once I don’t play hockey anymore, no more closets. Just me and you.”

“Wow,” Jack said. “Wow.”

Kent could see Jack was thinking about it, it was a promising start. Of all days, Kent needed some fucking good news today.

 

**3 / JACK**

Jack had been lying. He’d spent his entire life thinking about how to steal the Stanley Cup.

Jack’s dad, Bob Zimmermann, had been one of the hockey greats before Jack was born. When his team, the Pittsburgh Penguins, had lost the Cup in 1991, Bad Bob had somehow - nobody, not even the prosecuting attorney had guessed how - stole the Cup from where it was being kept at the stadium and he had driven himself and the trophy most of the way back to Montreal before a moose stepped in front of him and totaled his car. The moose and Bob were fine, and Bob had been taken into custody and given a good plea deal, three months jail time, probably shorter for good behavior.

Bob told the reporters he wouldn’t spend three months away from his baby, Jack.

And he was right. The prosecutor spent about five minutes looking into Bad Bob’s business dealings, and it turned out his Bad Bob’s 100% Canadian Maple Syrup was about 1% maple syrup and 99% flavored sugar water. Canada demanded his head. He went away for 30 years for being a bad Canadian, mostly.

Jack went up to see him in prison a couple times a year, and sent the occasional letter. His friends knew better than to bring up Bob, it was a constant source of anxiety for him. And now here was Kent casually mentioning stealing the Cup and Bob together, câlice!

Jack thought about it on his drive home later that night and came to one conclusion: he needed to ask Shitty for advice. Shitty, his best friend from college, always knew what to do. Whether someone needed a legal loophole to keep their house from being condemned or help finding the best Grindr dates, Shitty was there to help, sometimes even when Jack hadn’t asked.

After a restless night, Jack drove to Shitty’s bar the next day. After graduating, Shitty used his trust fund to buy a dive bar he named Merde not far from campus. His grandfather was proud of the investment, so Shitty did everything in his power to make sure the bar broke even and no better. If he was in danger of making a profit, he bought something expensive, which is why Merde had so many pinball machines and air hockey tables, and the highest wages for bartenders in the region.

Jack and Shitty hugged it out like they always did. “Missed you, bro,” Shitty said.

Jack smiled. “We had breakfast two days ago.”

“Doesn’t mean I haven’t missed you since then,” Shitty said. Jack didn’t drink, so Shitty made him a lime and tonic, and added a little tropical umbrella, because annoying Jack was one of Shitty’s strengths.

It was before opening hours, and Jack sat while Shitty got the bar ready for the day.

“You go see KP this week?” Shitty asked.

Jack smiled thinking about it. “Yeah, last night.”

“He excited about the playoffs?” Shitty asked.

“Shhhhh,” Jack said, motioning with his hands, worried despite the bar being empty. “And, yes, I think so. Says he’s probably going to get some time on the ice, even.”

Shitty looked skeptical. “That kid isn’t ready.”

“The coaches haven’t given him a chance.” Jack was used to defending Kent by now, both to the few people that knew they were seeing each other and also to Kent himself.

“He was on thirty seconds against the Rangers and gave them the puck twice.”

Jack sighed. Kent wasn’t a great player, but he had the skills, he needed more time on the ice to get used to that level of play, Jack could see it. Kent could be one of the greats, he needed the time to prove himself. But they were getting away from the point of Jack’s visit. He leaned forward and spoke softer. “Gotta question, for you. Hypothetical, let’s say. Have you ever thought about stealing the Cup?”

Shitty whistled. “Apple, tree.”

Jack shrugged. “What if that’s my legacy?”

“What brought all this up?” Shitty asked.

Jack fiddled with the napkin under his drink. “It’s going to be in Providence, I’m going to take the Pee Wee kids to go see it. And, you know, just been thinking about things.”

“Well, shit’s a lot different since Bad Bob did that snatch and run,” Shitty said. “He did it by himself, but even if this was possible, you’d need a dozen people -”

“Four,” Jack interrupted.

“Four?” Shitty said incredulously.

“Four.” Jack nodded decisively.

Shitty looked around as if to double-check no one else was in the bar, and then leaned over to get closer to Jack. “I’ll bite,” he said. “Tell me this plan of yours.”

Jack outlined the plan. An artist to make a replica, someone, maybe a caterer, to move the replica in and the real one out of the stadium, a security guard to look the other way … and someone to do the actual switch.

Shitty was nodding. “Five,” he said.

“Five?” Jack asked.

“And me to go with your dumbass,” he said. “You know you don’t have the luck to attempt any of this on your own. And who always is there to bail your ass out?”

“Thanks, Shitty,” Jack said. Shitty was the best, and also impossible to talk out of not doing dumb stuff, Jack had the photos to prove it.

“And what do you get for stealing it?” Shitty said.

“Kent,” Jack said softly. “He has a buyer, one million, and then we’re going to go live somewhere, together.”

“Kent is going to give up what could be a lucrative hockey career to go live in a cabin with a Pee Wee hockey coach,” Shitty said dryly.

Jack probably should have been more hurt by Shitty’s bluntness. “Give up hockey, gain his _life_ ,” Jack said quietly.

“Oh,” Shitty said.

“So, anyway, I think I know someone we can use for a security guard,” Jack said. “But if you have any leads on an artist or a caterer, let me know.”

“Let me ask around,” Shitty said.

 

**4 / JACK**

A few summers ago, Jack had worked with a guy named Holster. Holster had been a pretty good Pee Wee coach, and hadn’t given Jack any shit about his father, which Jack appreciated. He still had Holster’s number in his phone and sent him a text: “Interested in a business opportunity?”

A minute later: “Always.”

Holster worked in Providence now, but said he was going to be in Samwell that weekend, and they arranged to meet at Shitty’s bar Friday night.

Jack walked into Merde at the appointed time, and was relieved to see Holster sitting at the bar, drinking a beer, tall and blond like Jack remembered. Jack said hello, and Holster grabbed him into a hug and slapped Jack’s butt a couple of times. It felt like being back on a hockey team, actually.

Jack introduced Holster and Shitty, and Shitty gave an approving nod. Holster was 6’4” and 220 pounds, easy. Jack sat next to Holster at the bar where Holster was drinking a beer.

“What are you up to these days?” Jack asked. Shitty made Jack a drink and put it on the bar in front of him.

“Project Manager at an app consulting startup,” Holster said.

“How is that?” Jack asked, tossing the umbrella from his drink onto the bar. He had no idea what what an app consulting startup was.

“The fucking worst,” Holster said. “I mostly claim that I’m meeting with clients and go back to my apartment and watch Netflix.” He sipped his beer. “How about you?”

“Still coaching,” Jack said.

“You said something about a business opportunity?” Holster said.

“Yeah, I’m working on a little something, side project,” Jack said.

“You paying?” Holster said.

“Yeah,” Jack said.

“Cool, I’m in,” Holster said. “What do you need?”

Jack blinked. That was way too easy. “You don’t want to know what the job is?”

“Is it worse that taking tens of thousands of dollars from new businesses to tell them they should use Twitter?” Holster asked.

Jack looked at Shitty. “Fuck no,” Shitty said.

“Great,” Holster said. “What do you need?”

“We’d like you to get hired at Big Al’s, it’s a security firm that’s been contracted to do security work at the Falconer’s stadium for the playoffs.” Jack fidgeted with the umbrella.

“No problem,” Holster said.

“It’s that easy?” Jack asked.

“Look at me,” Holster said, gesturing from the ground to his hair. “I’m big, white, and can pass a drug test.”

Shitty nodded approvingly. They finalized a couple of details, and Holster headed out, beer on the house from Shitty.

“Also, good news,” Shitty said after Holster was out of the door. “I know a guy that knows a guy and I know who’s doing the cake, place called Southern and Sweet, here in town.”

“Great,” Jack said. “You think we can get a meeting?”

“Tomorrow at 3 when the bakery closes for the day,” Shitty said.

“You’re the best,” Jack said.

“Don’t I fucking know it,” he said, reaching a hand across the bar to ruffle Jack’s hair.

 

**5 / JACK**

The next day, Jack and Shitty got into Shitty’s car and headed to the bakery. It was a cute storefront on a street lined with restaurants and bars and whatever a bakeatery was. The door chimed as they walked in. There was a large counter to the left, and a few small tables. It smelled like the best cheat day Jack could imagine.

“Just one second,” a voice with a Southern accent rang out, and a few moments later a shorter, very familiar-looking blond man walked to behind the cash register.

“You!” Eric said in surprise.

“You!” Jack said in surprise.

Jack had met Kent on Grindr and they seemed like they were both on the same page and after a month or so, Jack had mentioned that it was late to be driving back to Samwell. Kent had freaked, said that Jack had no right to ask to spend the night, didn’t he know it was dangerous even having Jack over at all. He’d told Jack to leave and never come back.

Jack had been a bit heartbroken, honestly. He and Kent hadn’t been together that long, but they had a real connection. Shitty had told Jack to get back on the horse, and together they scrolled through Grindr that night. Shitty had started a conversation with the first guy that Jack had said was “kinda cute, I guess” and sent Jack over to this guy - Eric’s - place. Jack had sheepishly gone over, and Eric had baked Jack a pie. Two pies, actually, a chocolate one and an apple one, telling Jack he wasn’t sure if Jack was going to be a fruit pie or a chocolate pie guy. Jack tried both and had come no closer in figuring it out because both were really good.

Jack and Eric had a good night, and the next morning they’d agreed to see each other soon. Jack hadn’t wanted to put his phone away that day at the rink in case it was Eric texting about getting together, but a stray hockey stick from the under 11s knocked Jack’s hand and the phone went flying onto the ice, only to be run over by a pack of kids. Jack spent a lot of time picking up the million pieces from the rink, but his phone was gone and he had no way to contact Eric. He’d replaced his phone, but never received a message from Eric, never thought he’d see Eric again, and yet here he was.

“What am I missing?” Shitty asked. He looked up from where he studying the display case of pastries and pies.

“This is Eric,” Jack said. “Um, if that’s your actual name.”

“It is,” Eric said glaring at Jack. “Are you really Jack?”

“Yes,” Jack said.

“Grindr boy with the pies!” Shitty said. “Awesome.”

“Not awesome,” Eric said. He turned, hand on hip and glared at Jack. “Why didn’t you call?”

“Lost my phone to an ice accident,” Jack said. “Why didn’t you call?”

“Lost my phone to a pie accident,” Eric said.

Shitty looked back and forth at the two of them. “Sounds about right. You guys want to kiss and make up or just make up?”

Eric shrugged. “I’m over it, plenty of fish in the sea as my Moo Maw always says. Do you guys want pie?” His eyes narrowed in a way that Jack took to mean that they better not refuse the pie.

“We do,” Shitty said and sat down. Jack stayed standing for a few moments before sitting down next to Shitty.

Eric brought out blueberry pie on small plates and served Shitty and Jack. Shitty’s piece was about twice the size of Jack’s. Shitty took a large bite. “This is the best fucking pie I have ever tasted,” he said around his mouthful.

“Thank you,” Eric said. “I learned to bake from my momma.”

Shitty shoved in another forkful and moaned. Eric looked pleased. “I heard you’re doing the catering for the Cup games,” Jack said.

“Yep,” Eric said with a small shrug. “I put in the lowest bid, so I won.” He made a face.

“How low?” Shitty asked licking his fork.

“Free,” Eric said. “The advertising seemed liked a good idea at the time.”

“What if we could help you out?” Jack asked, seeing his opening. “We’re working on something and could use your help.”

“What sort of thing?” Eric asked.

“The less you know, the better,” Shitty said. “But we’d need you to get a large object in and out of the building.”

“How large?” Eric asked.

“90 centimeters,” Jack said.

Eric looked at Shitty. “About three feet,” Shitty said.

Eric crossed his arm. “I think I know what this is about.”

“Don’t say it!” Shitty said.

“Aren’t you going to ask what’s in it for you?” Jack asked.

“Right,” Eric said. “So what’s in it for me?”

“A thousand dollars for the job,” Jack said. “And another thousand for your discretion.” Shitty had said he could delay putting in the karaoke booths for a few months and give the money on a loan to Jack. Jack knew Kent would be able to pay Shitty back once they sold the Cup.

“That is a lot of pies,” Eric said.

“So you’re in?” Jack asked.

“Yes,” Eric said.

“Any chance of seconds?” Shitty asked, holding out his plate. For a moment, Jack wondered if Shitty was going to lick his plate.

“Only for people that love my pies,” Eric said, taking Shitty’s plate to the back.

“You should sleep with this guy again for the pies,” Shitty said to Jack.

“I heard that!” Eric said from the back.

“Good, I meant it,” Shitty said, leaning his chair back onto two legs.

Jack reminded himself that he had a boyfriend. Maybe not a boyfriend in name, but he had Kent. And soon they’d get to be together, and Jack wouldn’t be thinking about some other man and his pies.

 

**6 / JACK**

After the meeting with Eric, Jack and Shitty headed to meet the artist.

“How’d you find her?” Jack asked.

“I asked a couple undergrads last night who does the best metal sculpture work in town, and got a name.” Shitty coasted through a stop sign.

“What-” Jack started to worry.

“Relax,” Shitty said, patting Jack’s knee. “I told them I was planning on adding some sculptures to above the bar, it all sounded hella legit.”

Jack sighed. It was hard to trust everything working out when that hadn't been the case for him, ever.

“I almost wish I hadn’t eaten so much pie since we’re headed to the froyo place,” Shitty said honking his horn instead of waiting his turn at the four-way stop.

“What’s froyo?” Jack asked.

Shitty grinned in what Jack would characterize in an evil way. “Man, you are in for a treat!”

After finding a place to park, Shitty and Jack walked into Mo Fro Mo Yo, a small and sweet-smelling shop near the college. “Why would you freeze yogurt?” Jack asked Shitty.

“Because it’s delicious,” Shitty said.

There was an Asian woman sitting in front of a giant bowl of yogurt. “Shitty?” she asked.

“Lardo?” Shitty said with some surprise.

“Sit the fuck down, then,” Lardo said motioning at two of them.

Shitty ordered the extra large Sriracha froyo on Lardo’s recommendation. Jack ordered a small vanilla.

“So we have a project we could use some help on,” Jack said trying the froyo. It was sweet and cold and not nearly as good as Eric’s pie.

“Are you paying?” Lardo said.

“Yeah,” Jack said.

“Not like ‘exposure’ but real money?” she asked.

“Yep,” Shitty confirmed.

“Cool, I’m in,” Lardo said.

“Don’t you want to hear more?” Jack asked.

“These student loans aren’t going to pay themselves,” Lardo said.

Shitty explained what they needed between bites of froyo. “Ok, I can totally make this thing,” Lardo said as she scrolled a few images on her phone. “But all of the names are going to need to be engraved, and that might take longer than I have.”

“I’ll help!” Shitty said banging his hand on the table.

“Do you know how to engrave silver?” Lardo asked.

“I’ll learn,” Shitty said.

Lardo gave him an appraising look. “Cool,” she said.

Jack allowed himself a moment to breath out a sigh of relief. His plan might work.

 

**7 / KENT**

Kent was nervous, verging on panicking.

He was no closer to getting a million dollars together than he was on that night that Foster had cornered him in the parking lot. Jack wasn’t going to steal the Cup for him, Kent was too chicken to tell his parents what he needed the money for, so it was going to be up to him.

He had invited Carl to his place. He and Carl had played together until Kent had been called up to the Falconers. He and Carl hadn’t been best friends or anything, but Kent figured Carl would be the most likely to help him with his plan. Maybe it was just a night of drinking together - Kent had sprung for the expensive whiskey - but Carl seemed to be on the same page as Kent.

They were both slouched on Kent’s couch, feet on the coffee table, the tv was on ESPN, and Kent was ready to breach the subject.

“I wish the Falcs would give more of us a chance,” Kent said. “We play just as good as them.”

“Hell, yeah,” Carl said, clinking his glass with Kent.

“If I could some real playing time, I could show them how good I am,” Kent said. “How good all of us are,” he amended.

“Besides that goal you gave to the Rangers?” Carl chirped.

Fuck Carl. He didn’t know what it was like playing in the big leagues.

“Listen, if Marty or Thirdy is injured, they gotta take me off the healthy scratch list,” Kent said. “Then I get to play in the playoffs. That’s $150k, and I’ve earned that. I’ve been practicing with this team for over a month now.”

Carl took a big swig of his whiskey. That whiskey was meant to be savored, not gulped down like it was a cheap beer. “It sucks that you’re so close,” he finally allowed. “These last few games are rough, though, you never know who’s going to go down. Like it looks like Tater’s hand might be broken.”

“Just sprained,” Kent said, repeating the gossip he’d overheard during morning skate. “So what if someone helped an injury along?”

“That’s a dick move,” Carl said. “I might shove a guy a little hard in practice, but I’d never try and take him out. That’s your teammate, man.”

“What if you needed the money?” Kent said quietly.

Carl gestured around Kent’s apartment, sloshing a bit of whiskey over the edge of the glass. Kent shouldn’t have wasted his good whiskey on Carl. “You got it made, man. Just don’t fuck up this season and see what happens during the draft. They might draft another batch of kids and send ‘em down to us, and keep you up here since you’ve got experience now.”

“Maybe,” Kent said. They’d get in their new trades and draft picks and send Kent back. Then he’d have to wait another season for more injuries so he could get called up. It was a cycle by now. He’d get close but it was never enough.

This was looking to be a dead end and a waste of a bottle of whiskey. “You know Bad Bob Zimmermann?” Kent said.

“That loon that tried to steal the cup?” Carl said with a laugh.

“I know his son,” Kent said.

“I didn’t know he had a kid,” Carl said. “Imagine growing up with Bad Bob as your father.” Carl laughed and slapped his knee.

“Yeah,” Kent said. He’d never thought to ask Jack about any of that, actually, if it bothered him having such a notorious dad. “Bad Bob was an idiot, but imagine what you could do if you were smart about it.”

“For sure,” Carl said. Ok, time for Kent to go in for the kill.

“I’ve got a stadium-wide pass,” Kent said, “and a buyer for the Cup.”

Carl lifted an eyebrow. “You know what you need, a disguise,” he said, “yeah, you gotta use a disguise, like dressing up as cheerleader!”

“That won’t work for a lot of reasons,” Kent said. “But costumes are a great idea.” He was starting to picture it.

“The only thing that stopped Bad Bob was a moose,” Carl said getting more animated, sitting forward in his seat. “Are there are no mooses in Providence.”

“The plural of moose is moose,” Kent said. “So what do you think, you want in?”

Carl nodded. He was in. They talked more details. Carl would procure a costume using his sister’s address. Kent would get Carl a ticket for the game. Carl would grab the Cup during the game and Kent would get it out of the stadium and to Foster. Kent sighed in relief as he sipped his whiskey. His little gambling issue was about to be fixed. When Carl’s cab came to collect him, they shared a fist-bump.

“Let’s show those Falconers what we can do,” Carl said, falling into the taxi.

“Hell, yes,” Kent said, feeling hopeful for the first time since Foster had found him in the parking lot.

But this had been very stressful and Kent still needed the Cup in his hands before he was free. As Carl’s taxi sped away, Kent’s finger hovered over his contacts before he pressed the Grindr app and started swiping.

 

**8 / JACK**

Now that Jack had his team in place, he was ready to tell Kent the good news. Kent was going to be so happy with Jack, he wouldn’t even mind that Jack was stopping over without calling first. Jack sat in his car a few minutes before getting up the nerve to head up to Kent’s condo. He was mentally rehearsing what he was going to say as he knocked on the door.

A very muscular Latino man opened the door only wearing boxers. “Hell-o,” the man said. He turned his head back to the kitchen. “Are we having a threesome and you didn’t tell me?”

“I must have the wrong apartment,” Jack said, stepping back to check the number next to the door.

“It’s the hoagie delivery,” Kent’s voice rang out. “Let me get my wallet.”

Oh, god, right apartment, wrong time, and Jack needed to be going. He needed to convince his feet to move. Move, feet, move.

Kent came to the door wearing just a towel, his face grimacing as he recognized Jack. “What in Lemieux’s name are you doing here?” he hissed.

“I was just going,” Jack said. “This was a bad idea.” Jack’s legs finally started moving.

“You’re damn right it was,” Kent said. “And don’t fucking come back!”

Jack drove straight to Merde in a daze. It was still before opening and he pounded on the door until Shitty answered.

“I need a drink,” he told Shitty.

“You came to the right place, man,” Shitty said, opening the door to let Jack in. He grabbed an O'Doul's from the back of the fridge, opened the top and set it down in front of Jack. Jack drank half of it in one go.

“Something happen with the plan?” Shitty asked.

“Plan’s off,” Jack said.

“What?” Shitty said. “It sounded like you said the plan was off.”

“I was in Providence checking things, and I stopped by KP’s -”

“Oh,” Shitty said, his face bracing like he was expecting the worst.

“Yeah, he had another guy over. I think they were having sex.” Jack was staring down at the bar. He looked up at Shitty. “Maybe I misunderstood?”

“Lay it out, bro,” Shitty said. “What did you see? What did he say?”

“I opened the door and there was a man in just his underwear, and he asked if Kent wanted a threesome and then Kent thought I was the delivery guy.”

Shitty nodded once. “This sucks, bro,” Shitty said. “But, Kent was definitely sticking his dick where it didn’t belong.” He laid a hand on Jack’s forearm. “You deserve so much better than that asshole.”

Jack was crestfallen. His last shred of hope that it was all a misunderstanding was gone. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” Jack mumbled. “It’s Bad Bob’s fault. He screwed everything up when he touched the Cup.” Jack finished the last of his non-alcoholic beer with a few swallows. He thought about what he had just said and he realized what he needed to do. “No, plan’s back on, I’m going to get the Cup and change my luck!” he said, slamming his empty can down.

“That’s the spirit,” Shitty said, holding his hand for a high five.

Jack had studied the Cup and its magic, and he could only determine one thing: Bad Bob had ruined not only his luck but his son’s luck with that one fateful act.

Jack had the worst luck of anyone he knew. His laptops crashed within days, and always during tests. He had received too many traffic tickets to count. He always choose the slowest grocery line.

Hockey, yeah, hockey was the worst part of his bad luck life. Jack loved hockey and had a promising hockey start, but injuries plagued him. Strange ones, his blade fell off and he broke his wrist when he was 10. Fell through a foot of ice when he was 12. He started his freshman year at Samwell, and at the first game, as he was stepping on the ice for the first time, a piece of the scoreboard fell and broke his leg, ending his hockey career. His doctors told him with serious faces that he was lucky to be walking.

While Jack lay in his hospital bed, slowly accepting he was saying goodbye to his hockey career, he had first had this thought: if Bad Bob stealing the Cup the first time was bad luck, maybe if Jack could steal it for himself and turn that bad luck into good luck.

Could he change his life’s misfortunes? It was time to find out.

 

**9 / JACK**

The days passed quickly. Holster was hired at the stadium and would be on shift on game day. Lardo and Shitty were most of the way finished with the replica Cup. Eric had had Jack try four different cake fillings before settling on a strawberry one. Jack was spending a lot of time with Eric, and he rarely thought about Kent.

The Falconers had won the first two games in Vegas, but lost the day before back home. The talk was the Falconers needed tomorrow’s win before heading back to Vegas. Today was a rest day, and the day Jack was taking the Pee Wee kids to the stadium, to see the Cup. Jack was at the parking lot of the rink, trying to get over thirty kids onto the bus, with the only parent who had been willing to help chaperone, Dustin’s mom, Mrs. Smith.

He finally got all of the kids onto the bus, and sat in the only empty seat next to Mrs. Smith, and the bus started heading to the stadium.

“I guess we’ll get to know each other a little better on this adventure,” Mrs. Smith said smiling. “Why don’t you tell me a little about Mr. Jack Zimmermann?”

“There’s not much to tell,” Jack answered. Oh, boy, this was going to be a long bus ride.

“Oh, come on,” she said. “Where are you from? What do you do for fun?”

“I’m from Canada - Montreal. I like hockey.” Jack tried not to wince, of course he liked hockey, he was a hockey coach.

“I thought I heard an accent,” Mrs. Smith said. “So is there a Mrs. Jack Zimmermann?”

“No,” Jack said.

“Girlfriend?” Mrs. Smith asked.

“I have a boyfriend,” Jack blurted out before he could think. Wait, he didn’t have a boyfriend, he was just falling in love with a Southern baker. “Not a boyfriend, more than a friend?”

“Oh!” she said, her mouth hanging open in surprise. “I didn’t realize.”

“Um, yeah,” Jack said.

“I should have known,” she said. “I’m an interior decorator, half my clients are gay.” She laughed and fished a business card out of her bag. “If you know anyone who needs an interior decorator, have them give me a call.”

“Thanks?” Jack said.

Mrs. Smith smiled. “Tell me all about this more than a friend,” she said. She pulled out another business card and added it to the one in Jack’s hand. “And let him know that I know the owners of that mid-century modern antique shop downtown and get to see their furniture before they put it on the floor.”

And Jack did tell Mrs. Smith about Eric, about his baking and his pies and how he always smelled good. She was an attentive listener, nodding at the right places and Jack found himself talking more on the bus ride to Providence than he had in a long time. Mrs. Smith had some funny stories about interior design mishaps and the antics Dustin got up to. As the bus pulled into the parking lot, she leaned over and said, “I’m so glad we had a chance to get to know each other,” and Jack agreed and realized he really meant it.

It was probably all the talking about Eric that had done it, but he felt reasonably ready to face the day and getting the kids around the stadium and checking on the Cup. That feeling lasted all of ten minutes, in which he had lost three kids four times and stepped on a peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich. He sighed.

He was thankful when Mrs. Smith took Braden to the bathroom when he said that he might have eaten too many chips on the way down and might throw up.

Coach Hall met them near the locker room. “Who’s ready to see the Stanley Cup?” he asked as the kids cheered. The two of them lead the way down the corridor to the conference room that had been turned into the Cup display room while the Falconers were playing at the stadium.

“Makes you think,” Coach Hall said.

“What?” Jack said, ears reddening, heart pounding, wondering if he’d been found out.

“Well, if my wife hadn’t gotten pregnant, I might have tried the draft. And if you hadn’t been hit by that scoreboard, you might have had a good college career and tried out for the draft. And if we worked hard enough and got lucky enough, we might have played here.” He clapped Jack hard on the shoulder. “But these little brats are lucky to have you, and all’s well that ends well.” He looked up and saw Alex using Nicky as a ladder to scale a cabinet full of historic photos. “Alex! Nicky! Stop now or you’ll be doing suicides all next practice,” he shouted and hurried to stop the impending disaster.

Jack hid a smile.

They followed the crowd and were escorted to the Cup, and for a second it took Jack’s breath away. What an achievement to win it, get your name on it. Jack was so overwhelmed he had forgotten about Holster, who was standing there, looking solemn. They made eye contact, but didn’t risk a nod. He saw Holster looking at something and glanced over his shoulder. Oh, shit, a worker was installing a video camera over the door. He glanced at it again, and it was still there and not just a figment of his overactive anxious brain.

The drive back to Providence seemed to take forever as Jack couldn’t stop thinking about the camera. Thankfully Mrs. Smith had a interior design mishap and spent the entire ride on her phone and then all the kids' parents were miraculously on time to get their kids. Mrs Smith gave Jack a friendly hug before she left with Dustin. Jack got into his car and sent Holster a text.

Seconds later, his phone beeped at him and he saw he had an incoming call from Holster.

“Hey,” Jack answered. He probably needed to call the whole thing off, things were impossible.

“We can use this,” Holster said, not needed to reference the video camera. “My friend is a computer expert; you should call him.”

  
**10 / JACK**

Jack hung up from Holster and called the number he had given him.

“Hello?” the voice answered.

“Is this Ransom?” Jack asked.

“Depends who’s asking,” the voice said.

“My name is Jack, and your friend Holster said you might be able to help me with a problem I have,” Jack said.

“Hey, are you Canadian?” the man asked.

“Montreal,” Jack said.

“Toronto,” Ransom said. “Are you in Providence? I know a place that does poutine.”

An hour later, and less than 24 hours before they stole the Cup, Jack was sitting across from a tall black man. “Hello,” he said, shaking his hand. “Ransom?”

“What’s up, bro?” Ransom replied.

Jack outlined what he needed, and Ransom nodded along. “If they’re installing a video camera this late in the game, it’s just going to be an internal feed.”

“You can do it?” Jack asked.

“Should be easy,” Ransom said. The waiter delivered a giant plate of poutine and both the men grabbed a fry.

“And you’re not worried about the er, legalities of the situation?” Jack had to know.

“I’m in it for the money,” Ransom said. “Two grand for a day’s work is my kind of money.”

“Is there anything I should know for tomorrow?” Jack asked.

“Ummm, you should know i sometimes get a little anxious,” Ransom said, shrugging slightly. “I’ll be fine, though.”

“Me, too,” Jack thought. Me, too. He felt good after the meeting. Zimmermann’s Five was now Zimmermann’s Six. Six was good, six was a hockey team.

Jack knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, so he headed over to Southern and Sweet. Eric had taken on the cake gig in addition to his own work, and he’d been working long hours.

Jack could hear loud pop music blaring from the store, and knocked loudly so Eric would hear him. He watched Eric dance his way to the door and open it wide.

“Mr. Zimmermann, just the man I wanted to see,” he said grabbing Jack’s hands and attempting to make Jack dance with him. Jack tried a couple of steps and Eric laughed at him.

“At least you’re cute,” Eric said, locking the door behind them. “Please tell me you’re here to help because we have some cakes to finish.”

“I’m here to help,” Jack said, happy he was able to spend this last night with Eric. “Put me to work.”

  
**11 / JACK**

Jack took a deep breath as Lardo pulled the van into the parking lot at the Falcs stadium. Holster and Ransom had been at the stadium working since midday, and now the rest of the team was here, too. Lardo parked and Lardo, Shitty and Jack all jumped out to help Eric wheel the cakes into the stadium.

Eric had brought three cakes, well, two cakes and the replica Cup. He’d also brought cookies decorated with the Falconers logo, and hand pies for Jack and the rest of the team to eat on the way down. And chocolate chip cookies? Every time Jack paused, Eric was handing him another dessert. It was the most off meal plan he’d eaten in his life, but he wasn’t mad about it.

Shitty and Lardo wheeled the giant box containing the replica, while Eric and Jack wheeled in the actual cakes. A bored woman with a clipboard stopped them at the door.

“Name,” she said not looking up.

“Eric Bittle from Southern and Sweet,” Eric answered.

“We have two lanyards for you.” She shifted through the box on the table next to her. “Eric and Jack,” she said hold out the name badges.

“I asked for four names,” Eric said sweetly.

The woman finally looked up. “Sorry, hon. I’ve only got two on the list. But I will let your crew in to drop off the cakes, but then I’m going to need them to leave.”

Crap. This was just the first step and everything was going wrong and off plan.

Distantly he heard Shitty spelling “S-H-I-T-T-Y. For real, bro!”

Eric motioned at Jack and Jack bent over for Eric to put the lanyard around his neck. “It’s fine, we’ll make it work.” He smiled at Jack and Jack nodded. They needed to get everything in the door.

Clipboard woman waved them all in, with a reminder that Lardo and Shitty needed to be out in five minutes and move the van from the no parking section. The four of them wheeled everything in, and then Lardo and Shitty said their goodbyes, Lardo giving Jack a hug before following Shitty out.

Jack closed his eyes, breathed in and out. Ok, he could handle this.

They were leaving everything covered for obvious reasons, but Jack had watched Eric put the cake together last night and Jack didn’t know anything about cakes, but he knew Eric’s cake was a thing of beauty. He’d made a 7-tiered cake in Falconer colors and with the mascot at the top. Well, he’d made three in case one of them fell or the icing was smeared. Two made it in and one was still in the van. Eric had brought his icing supplies, too, for any touch up work. It was a big opportunity for his business, and he was making sure everything was perfect.

It was still two hours to game time and Eric and Jack needed to get the replica to the supply closet nearest to the conference room where the Cup was. While Ransom did whatever he needed to do with the video camera, Holster would make the switch during the first period. Eric and Jack would retrieve the Cup during the second period, giving them plenty of time to get back to the kitchen before the end of the game. They’d wheel everything out at the end of the night. It was a simple plan, but simple was better.

The Falcs. Jack had barely thought about Kent these past few days. Kent wasn’t his responsibility, but he was on the healthy scratch list again, and Jack imagined how frustrated he would be.

The game was on a small tv in the corner of the room, and the sound was off but Jack could imagine the banal pre-show talking that was happening. A catering company was setting up their boxes and boxes of sandwiches on the other side of the kitchen, but the three workers weren’t paying any attention to Jack and Eric.

After triple checking that his cakes were perfect, Eric hopped up on a kitchen counter and swung his feet. Jack was visualizing the plan over and over, the way his dad had taught him to think about hockey plays.

A different man with a clipboard came and checked in with them. They wouldn’t know if Eric’s cake was needed until the final buzzer, and all leftover cake would be donated to a local soup kitchen. Eric was all charm, laughing and joking with the man. The man left, telling Eric he’d be sure to try adding the egg whites to his pancakes as the last step and that he’d be back in an hour.

They heard the muffled cheering from the crowd. The game had started.

It was go time.

Jack nodded to Eric and Eric nodded back. They had left the replica on the cart, and now they needed to wheel it to the closet.

Eric had brought and apron and chef’s hat for Jack, and they donned them together, Eric tying the back of the apron for Jack. They carefully wheeled the cart out of the kitchen, then down the hallway. Jack kept his eyes peeled to the floor.

“Hey!” someone with a polo and a walkie-talkie barked. “Catering in the kitchen until post game!”

“They said social media wanted a shot,” Eric said smiling sweetly and showing his lanyard. He handed the man a chocolate chip cookie in a bag and the man nodded and waved them on.

This was more nerve-wracking than last spring when his Pee Wee team was down 2-1 going into the final three minutes of the final.

Eric was grinning at him. “Cookies will get you everywhere,” he declared. With Eric’s smile, Jack felt the pressure in his chest loosen.

They made it down the hallway and into the elevator, which was empty. The elevator dinged and they slowly moved the cart into the hallway. Straight down the hall was the conference room with the Cup, and Jack turned his head only once to make sure the supply closet was still there.

It felt like a mile run, but eventually, suddenly, they were at the door. Eric tried the handle and yes, Holster had gotten it open. They wheeled the cart into the closet, Jack stepped back and Eric closed the door. Success.

They walked back down the hall, then back on the elevator. Jack took a deep breath. Now was not the time to panic.

“You look good in that hat,” Eric said, smiling up at him.

“You look good, too,” Jack said. Wait, was that a chirp? But Eric really did look good. The elevator opened and Eric squeezed Jack’s hand before walking out and back towards the kitchen.

Jack followed and as they entered the kitchen together, he had a realization.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Jack said.

“You don’t?” Eric said.

“I don’t want to go to prison, I’d rather spend time with you.”

Eric studied Jack for a minute. “I don’t want you to go to prison either. We can go back and get it, if that’s what you really want.”

“It is,” Jack said.

“Let me restock my cookie bribes, then,” Eric said, smiling so brightly at him and Jack knew that this was the right decision.

It took a few minutes, but they were soon retracing their steps, and found the supply closet still unlocked and the cart with the Cup in it. Jack nodded at Eric, this was it, the final undoing of Jack’s plan. They wheeled the cart back to the kitchen.

Eric handed Jack a cupcake and they smiled at each other over the counter. 

 

**12 / KENT**

“You said you were going to help!” Kent hissed at Carl. They were in between the first and second period.

Carl shrugged. “This is your thing, not mine and when else am I going to watch a Cup game for free? You got me an awesome seat. It’s 1-1, I’m not missing the game now.” He handed Kent a large padded envelope. “Here’s the costume.”

Well Kent certainly didn’t have the luxury of stopping. “Fine,” he hissed and tore the envelope open as Carl waved goodbye and went back to the game.

Damn it, this was not the costume they had agreed on. Good thing Carl wasn’t in charge of actually stealing the Cup anymore because he’d screw that up, too. Kent was doing his best to keep calm, but everything was going to shit.

Kent had been sitting in the press box and had met up with Carl in the bathroom in between the press box and the conference room that housed the Cup. He was counting on this bathroom remaining empty until the end of the second period. The only good thing about being on the team and not playing might be his all-access pass.

He looked at the costume in his hand. It was this or nothing.

He stripped off his suit and put on the costume and glanced in the mirror. He looked ridiculous, but he didn’t look anything like Kent Parson, soon to be world-famous hockey player, that was for sure. He adjusted the leaf and flower mask across his eyes.

He grabbed Marty’s spare gear bag from where he had stashed it under the sink. “You got this, Kenny,” he whispered under his breath. He made his way down the hall, several printed signs with “Stanley Cup Exhibit” with helpful arrows told him he was going the right way.

He saw the door. He’d walked by a few times and there had been a tall white security guard standing outside the room, but he wasn’t there now. Probably off smoking a cigarette or something, security guards were so lazy.

A small handwritten sign said “Exhibit Closed.” Good, less witnesses. He gave the doorknob a twist and the door swung in; things were looking up. He breathed a sigh of relief. He opened the door and two men were staring down a laptop on the table next to the Cup. There was the white guy Kent recognized from his trips here, and a black guy who wasn’t familiar.

Two security guards? Shit, shit, shit.

Ok, stay calm, Kenny. “I need the Cup for the intermission show,” Kent said. “George said to come get the Cup."

The white guy was staring at him, and elbowing the black guy. “Ransom, do you get it?”

The guy Ransom looked mildly amused. “Yeah, Holster, I made it through freshman lit same as you."

“We gotta get a selfie!” Holster said. “It’s Puck at a hockey game, that’s meta.”

“NHL rules don’t allow selfies,” Kent said smoothly.

“I need to call my supervisor and confirm,” Holster said. “You understand, right?”

“I’m just doing my job,” Kent said, flinging the gear bag on the table. He grabbed the Cup and wiggled it into the bag. “You do not want to mess with me today,” he said to them.

It was heavy. He tried to lift it, but it slid off the table and right into his shin. Ow, that hurt. Go, go, go.

He turned to Holster and Ransom. “Tell no one I was here if you know what’s good for you.” He took off as fast as he could. He jogged down the hall and slipped into the bathroom and breathed a sigh of relief. He had the Cup.

 

**13 / JACK**

A stadium security guard stuck his head into the kitchen. “There’s been an incident. All bags and boxes will be searched as you leave the stadium tonight.”

Jack was doing his best not to look at Eric. Or behind the box where the replica was out of sight from the door.

“What kind of a problem?” Eric said, his voice extra southern. He hooked his pinky finger with Jack’s pinky finger and Jack felt calmer.

“Someone’s stolen that Stanley Cup,” he said with a shrug. “My frat once stole a goat.”

“That sounds like a good story,” Eric said.

“We were so drunk,” the security guard laughed.

Eric laughed, too. That wasn’t supposed to be funny, was it? Jack tried to smile along.

“We shouldn’t keep you,” Eric said. “Good luck!”

The security guard nodded, thumped the door twice and headed down the hallway.

Jack and Eric looked at each other, twin panic. “What,” Jack started to say, but Eric clapped his hand over Jack’s mouth.

“Later,” he said.

Jack pressed his hands against his eyes. “It’s not illegal to have a replica,” he muttered to himself.

“But how are we going to explain that?” Eric said.

“I know,” Jack said, wishing he had any idea what to do next.

“I have an idea,” Eric said, producing a large bowl from under the counter.

“What you’re idea?” Jack asked.

“Icing!”

“Icing?”

“Frosting?” Eric said. “We’re going to frost our Cup and wheel it out like it’s one of my extra cakes.”

“Oh,” Jack said. That was a good idea. Better than all of the ideas he didn’t have, that was for sure. Eric had grabbed his supplies from the cart and was already dumping sugar into the bowl.

“Can you grab butter from the fridge? Or at least vegetable shortening?”

Jack nodded and went to the fridge. The butter was in the back, and Jack grabbed a pound of it, that should be enough, right?

Eric put the bowl on a large mixer and started it. Jack sat on the counter and watched Eric work, he was so in his element he looked like he had been a regular in this kitchen for years. When the icing got to some point that met Eric’s standards, he pulled out his food coloring and added drops until the icing was a silvery-grey.

In no time at all, they were using the counter as a shield and kneeling next to the replica. Eric tasted the icing. “Needs lemon,” he said to himself. He handed Jack a spatula. “You cover it and I’ll go behind you and make it look like something I’d do.”

“Got it,” Jack said. He took the spatula, scooped out some icing and started applying it to the top of the Cup. He worked his way down, then moved on his knees to the next spot. Eric moved behind him and with a small knife, smoothing it out.

When Jack thought they were done, Eric added yellow food dye into a tiny bit of icing he had saved. He used a small knife to make a yellow F on the side. It was a nice touch.

Jack glanced at his watch. “I’ll text Lardo to come meet us,” Jack said. He wanted out. Eric nodded. “I’ll come with you, but first we need to do the dishes.”

“Evidence,” Jack nodded.

Eric swiveled, hand on hip. “I have not and never will leave my dishes for someone else.” He was glaring. “My momma taught me better than that.”

“Sorry,” Jack said.

Jack took the dishes to the sink and started washing, and Eric dried everything off and put it away. They were a good team.

And now was the hard part.

The moved the Cup slowly and carefully onto the top of the cart. Eric used a giant box to cover it.

“Remember, it’s the extra,” Eric said. He made an indent in the icing next to the yellow symbol. “Silly me, ruining my cake,” he said.

He checked one last time on his cakes that he was leaving behind for the Falconers if they won tonight.

Jack sent the text to Lardo. He looked at Eric and Eric took one side of the cart. Jack took the other and with Jack carefully walking backwards, they moved the Cup out of the kitchen and down the hallway.

The coast was clear.

They moved as one down the hallway, gently easing the cart over the bump between the concrete floor and where the carpeting started. Jack took a deep breath, nodded to Eric and pushed open the door to the outside with his hip.

“Hold on,” a voice said. Jack looked over his shoulder. Two policemen were there.

“We’re going to need to search that cart,” the one said, sounding bored.

“What you got there?” the other asked.

“Spare cake,” Eric said, grinning brightly. “And good thing, I put my finger right in it when we were setting up.” Jack’s hands were shaking, he hoped nobody would notice.

“My sister makes cakes,” the first policeman said. “Put Mickey and Elsa and all kinds of stuff on ‘em.”

“That’s great!” Eric said. “Who doesn’t love a good Elsa cake?” Jack and Eric carefully lifted the box off the Cup.

Jack had no idea what an Elsa was.

The first policeman swiped his finger through the icing near the top and stuck it in his mouth. Jack could see the metal shining out from underneath.

Maybe he could ask the judge to go to the same prison as Bad Bob. Might be nice to hang out with his dad, right?

“Do you think it needed lemon?” Eric said.

The policeman tilted his head to the side, tongue moving. “No, I think it’s good as is. Alright boys, good night.”

“Thanks, sir!” Eric said brightly. He and Jack put the box back on, Jack hit the Cup with his side and knew there would be icing everywhere, but it didn't matter, he wanted to go.

They pushed the cart towards the loading zone and when Jack looked up, Lardo was pulling in.

Shitty hopped out and opened the back door, and Jack and Eric moved the cake in, and then the cart. Eric and Jack jumped in and Shitty shut the back door before jumping into the front seat, Lardo stepping on the gas before Shitty was buckled.

“Tabarnak,” Jack swore. “Osti de tabarnak de câlice.”

“Exactly,” Eric said. Jack was suddenly exhausted and was laying on the floor and Eric laid down next to him, using Jack’s shoulder as a pillow.

“What was that,” Lardo said as she eased the van into traffic. “Shitty and I were sitting there and all of a sudden a hundred police cars were there.”

“Someone stole the Cup,” Jack said.

“Plot twist,” Eric said, “it wasn’t us.” Eric and Jack started laughing.

“What the fuck?” Shitty asked.

“Yeah, Jack decided at the last minute to not steal the Cup and this is Lardo’s replica with us.” Jack was laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe.

“What the fuck now?” Shitty said.

“We did all that work,” Jack gasped, “all of it, for nothing.”

Shitty and Lardo started laughing, too. Eric was ok, Shitty was ok, Lardo was ok. Everything was going to be ok.

 

**14 / KENT**

Kent quickly put his suit back on and flushed that stupid leaf costume down the toilet piece by piece. He adjusted the lanyard around his neck and grabbed the gear bag with the Cup. He needed to get the Cup out of here, but how. Think, Parson, think.

He could stick it in a box and mail it to himself? But he didn’t have enough stamps and it would be too obvious to see a giant box addressed to Kent Parson sitting around.

Throw it in a dumpster and come back tomorrow? He didn’t know where any of the dumpsters were.

No, he needed to walk out of here with it today.

Well, someone needed to walk out with it. Someone that no one would search. Someone that couldn’t have taken the Cup because they were on the ice. Someone like Marty. Kent needed to get back to the locker room.

He walked quickly through the halls, glad that those minimum-wage rent-a-cops guarding the Cup had been too dense to alert security that the Cup was gone. Probably worried about losing their jobs, ha! Although they probably would lose their jobs since Kent had managed to steal the Cup. That sucked, actually. But, really, they had barely tried to stop him, so they probably needed the career change anyway. Kent was doing them a favor.

Luck was on his side. He spotted a dirty towel cart full of practice gear. He heaved the bag over the side and covered it with dirty jerseys, pants, and towels. He pushed the the cart down the hallway and into the elevator.

The elevator took him down the lower floor with the locker room and as the doors opened, Kent pushed the cart through. The stadium was still mostly empty, so they must be in the second period. As he rounded the corner, a security guard waved at him.

“Players only,” he said.

“I’m a player!” Kent hissed.

The security guard raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you doing laundry?”

Kent shoved his lanyard towards the security guard. “It’s for charity,” he said, not knowing where those words had come from. “Yeah, George said we needed to get these jerseys signed for charity.”

The security guard shrugged his shoulders. “They don’t tell me anything.”

“Whatever,” Kent said and pushed the cart down the hall that led into the locker room.

As the cart hit the tile of the locker room, Kent breathed a sigh of relief. God, he loved being in the locker room. It smelled, yes, a little gross, but it mostly smelled like home. No matter where he’d lived and what boring billet family he’d been put with or what stupid boyfriend he was fighting with, the locker room and the ice were home.

Kent heard the buzzer that signaled the end of the second period. Kent would just - he looked around - hide in the toilets. He pushed the cart into the trainer’s area and hurried to the toilets. He dropped his pants and sat down just as he could hear the team getting back in.

Coach was screaming about “hustle” and “taking the shot” and it was a fucking joke that Kent wasn’t out there, Kent was all hustle and taking the shot. He could skate rings around the jokers out there, and here he was hiding on the toilet.

Coach was finishing up, and telling everyone to focus. It was bad luck to say it, but everyone was thinking it: a win tonight gave them good odds for the Cup.

Someone banged on his door. “Are you spy for Aces?” an accented voice chirped him. Fucking Tater.

“It’s Kent and I ate something that didn’t agree with me,” Parse yelled back.

“Haha, Parsey has the runs,” Tater said. He banged his fist on the door once more, Kent jumped a tiny bit, barely noticeable, and Tater walked away. Thank fucking god. He waited until it sounded liked everyone was back out for the third period, and then the buzzer sounded signaling the start of it.

Kent pulled up his pants and walked back into the main part of the locker room and jumped out of his skin at the sight of Marty sitting on the bench, his arm almost up to his shoulder in a bucket of ice.

“Shit,” Kent said.

“You’re telling me,” Marty said, his good hand curling into a fist.

“Bad?” Kent asked.

“I’m done for the season,” Marty said shaking his head. “I know it, it feels real bad.”

“Shit,” Kent said, a plan forming. He grabbed a couple of waters from the fridge in the back and set them next to Marty, who nodded his thanks at Kent.

“If we don’t get the W tonight, you might make the bench,” Marty said.

“What?” Kent asked. “Oh, right.” Marty glanced at him. Play it cool, Kenny. “Of course I want the chance, but not at the expense of one of my heros.” He tried to laugh modestly, but it came out a bit high pitched.

Marty gave Kent a searching look. “Or maybe I can sleep it off,” Marty said.

“I hope so!” Kent said with too much enthusiasm.

A security guard stuck his head in the locker room. “There’s been an incident with the Stanley Cup and we’re letting everyone know that there will be a search of all bags.

“That’s Sebastien St. Martin,” Kent said pointing to Marty, “get the fuck out of here.”

The security guard was unfazed. “Doing my job,” he said evenly but thankfully for Kent’s nerves, he turned and walked out.

Marty was staring at Kent. What had Kent fucked up.

“Wonder what that was about,” Marty said.

“I know Bad Bob Zimmermann’s son,” Kent said, a lie coming to him. “He told me that they keep the real Stanley Cup under lock and key since Bad Bob stole it that time.”

“What?” Marty said. “There’s a keeper and security guards and people have been coming in all day to see it. No way is it fake, I don’t care what Bad Bob Jr says.”

Kent shrugged. “Or maybe it’s the real deal and it’s just a rumor so people don’t bother to steal it.”

“Maybe,” Marty said, sounding like it was a no.

“Has a trainer looked at it since you’ve been icing? Maybe if the swelling’s gone down, they might be able to tell you more.” Kent needed Marty out of here.

“Yeah, I should check in with them.” Marty sighed. He took his arm out of the bucket and rotated his wrist a few times, wincing hard. Kent could see the swelling, and it looked bad.

“Good luck,” Kent said and Marty walked to the hallway.

The moment Marty was gone, Kent grabbed the bag from the laundry cart. He wrapped dirty practice jerseys around the Cup and then filled up the space with broken gear that had been shoved into a crate at the far side of the locker room. He glanced at the bag and it looked fine from the outside. He glanced in and it looked ok. He couldn’t let anyone get their hands in it, though.

The final buzzer sounded, and Kent couldn’t tell if it was a win or loss. The second the team walked in subdued and quiet, Kent knew it was a loss. Coach said they’d get it next time, it was time to go home, eat, rest and they’d work on plays tomorrow. Marty walked in from the trainers halfway through Coach’s speech and leaned dejectedly against the wall. Kent almost felt bad for him.

The players quietly changed out of their uniforms. Tater and Thirdy were on press duty, and after a few chirps, headed out to talk to the press.

Marty was sitting on the bench, not saying much. “Let me get your bag,” Kent said to him.

Marty glanced at his wrist and back at Kent. “I have two arms,” Marty said.

“I hurt my arm in Juniors and then hurt it worse when I fell on some ice,” Kent said.

Marty shrugged and Kent grabbed his bag. Two hockey bag were stupid heavy. He shouldn’t have skipped arm day last week. After this, he was going to fully commit to all of the conditioning.

Most of the team walked towards the garage together. There was a long line of concession stand workers and ticket booth workers, and and a lot of policemen barking orders. The players started grumbling. Kent looked around until he spotted him, the police officer that was also a fan. Kent jogged up to where Officer O'Flaherty was keeping people in line, but spending most of his time looking back at the players, talking to them like they were all best friends.

“Office O’Flaherty?” Kent asked.

The policeman nodded.

“The players need to get home and rest up for the next game,” Kent said. “Could you check our bags so we can get going?”

Officer O’Flaherty looked around. “Yeah, I can do that,” he said. He and Kent walked over to where the players had grouped together.

“I’ll start with you,” he said, patting the table where he wanted Kent to put the bag.

“Oh, start with the guys who played tonight,” Kent said, hoping he sounded modest. “Hey, Poots, this policeman is going to check our bags.” Poots looked up and walked over, flinging his bag onto the table.

Officer O’Flaherty did a pretty thorough job of looking through the bag, despite the fact that the thing he was searching for was big.

Poots waved goodbye to his teammates and walked off to his car.

Bravo was next, and Officer O’Flaherty did the same.

Kent took a deep breath, and slid Marty’s bag onto the table, and set his at his feet. Officer O’Flaherty checked the bag, rifling through the contents. He slid the bag back to Kent.

“Next!” he yelled.

“Sorry,” Kent said, smile plastered to his face. “I have Marty’s bag, too.” He gestured over to where Marty had his arm taped up.

“Fine,” Officer O’Flaherty said.

Kent slid the bag off the table, but the policeman was paying too much attention to him.

“Hey, Bravo,” Kent said. “That ref tonight?”

Bravo looked surprised to see Kent talking to him, but he went with it. “He wouldn’t know what a high-sticking was if he looked it up in the dictionary.”

Officer O’Flaherty glanced to where Bravo was still going on about the ref. Kent used the moment of distraction and flipped as much gear around as he could in Marty’s bag to make it look different, and set it back on top of the table. Officer O’Flaherty looked down and glanced at Kent.

“Ref made a bad call in my kid’s soccer game last week,” he said sliding Marty’s bag back to Kent for the second time.

“I bet that’s a great story, Kent said, zipping the bag. “Hey, Bravo, you next?” and Bravo dumped his bag on the table.

Kent handed Marty his bag and without another word kept walking down until he got to his car. He beeped his Porche open and put the bag on the seat next to him and then sat in his car, closing the door and locking it immediately.

He’d done it, he’d fucking done it. The Cup was his, he would get his debt wiped clean and then he’d never gamble again.

Ok, maybe he’d gamble again, but never more than $50, that was a nice bottle of wine, and just as much fun. $100 if the odds were good. Yes, he would never gamble more than $100 at once, he was a changed man.

 

**15 / JACK**

Merde would be busy this time of day, so they headed back to Eric’s bakery. Shitty had everyone’s money and Jack felt like he needed to explain to his team why he’d called the whole thing off.

Lardo parked the van behind Southern and Sweet, and Shitty and Jack wheeled the replica to the store as Eric was unlocking it.

“What a day,” Shitty said. “Are there more of those hand pies?”

“I have muffins,” Eric said brightly.

“Keeper,” Shitty mouthed to Jack, and Eric laughed.

Eric also made a pot of coffee, black for Jack, Irish for the rest of the crew.

They left the cart in the back, and then made themselves at home around a table in the front of the shop. Eric had drawn the blinds so no one could see in.

There was one tv mounted on the side of the eating area, and Shitty turned it on. The top news story was the Stanley Cup, of course. The police were asking for anyone with any information to come forward. What a mess; Jack was extra glad they’d avoided all of this.

Jack was on his third muffin when they heard a knocking at the back of the restaurant. Jack glanced at the time, it must be Ransom and Holster.

Ransom and Holster were exuberant, and came in high-fiving everyone. Everyone was giving them a strange look; surely Ransom and Holster had guessed what had happened, even if they didn’t know why.

Jack stood as Ransom and Holster helped themselves to pie. “I wanted to thank you all for your help. Even though we didn’t go through with it, it means a lot to me that you were on my team.”

“Didn’t go through with what?” Holster asked, spitting a few crumbs onto the table.

“The switch,” Jack said. “I realized the Cup wasn’t worth it.”

Ransom looked at Holster and Holster looked at Ransom.

“On a scale of 1 to 10, how mad would you be if we had to do the switch early?”

Eric’s jaw dropped.

Shitty gave a long drawn out “fuuuuuuuuck.”

“What?” Jack said. “Eric and I wheeled it up, went downstairs, I changed my mind, and we came back up.”

Holster looked like he wanted to say something but no words came out.

Ransom shook his finger a few times. “I was working on the video feed and accidentally took it off line early. We did the switch then - during the first period - because we wanted to be safe rather than sorry.

“Well, _fuck_ ,” Shitty said eloquently.

“So we have the actual Stanley Cup covered in icing in the back of my store!” Eric exclaimed. All six people sprinted to the back of the bakery to stare at the pink box.

Jack was shaking his head.

Holster and Ransom grabbed the box off, and then Eric directed them to put the Cup in the sink, and he started hosing it off with the sprayer.

“Sticky,” Holster said.

Lardo came over and pointed at a name. “Yeah, you see how that’s perfectly straight? I couldn’t get mine like that.”

“Are you saying we have the Stanley fucking Cup?” Shitty asked, holding her by the shoulders.

“Yeah,” Lardo said.

“What do I do?” Jack said, starting to panic. “You guys should all go home and I’ll figure it out. I was trying to avoid this.”

“I’ve got your back,” Shitty said.

“Me, too,” Eric said.

“We got you into this mess,” Holster said.

“We’ll get you out,” Ransom finished.

“So who has the replica?” Lardo asked, figuring out the important question of the moment.

Holster shrugged. “We told them what we knew, but no one had any idea when we left.”

“It was a hack job,” Ransom said. “He were in some weird leaf costume.”

Jack sighed. “White guy? Early twenties? This tall?” Jack said holding out his hand.

“Could be,” Ransom said.

“Kent,” Jack said.

“Kent who?” Eric asked.

“Kent Parson, Falconers player. He was called up a few months ago after Jonesy was injured. We were, um, seeing each other.” Jack didn’t know what to do with this new information that Kent had actually managed to steal the Stanley Cup. Well, a replica of the Stanley Cup that Jack had had made.

“Jack Laurent Zimmermann, were you stealing the Stanley Cup to impress a boy?” Eric asked, hand on hip.

“It started out that way, but I did end up wanting to steal it for me. My dad stole it -”

“- You’re THAT Jack Zimmermann - “ Ransom said to no one.

“ - when I was a kid, and I thought that my life sucked so bad, maybe if I stole it back my life could be good.”

“Jack caught Kent with some other dude,” Shitty said.

Everyone looked sadly at Jack, but Jack didn’t feel bad about that now.

“What are the odds that Kent knows he has a fake?” Ransom asked.

“Lardo’s replica is good,” Jack said. “Kent probably wouldn’t know, and he never said who his buyer was.”

“Do any of us know someone that has a million dollars and would want the Stanley Cup?” Lardo asked.

Everyone looked around, shaking their head.

It was a few hours later when Jack's phone rang and the robotic voice asked if Jack would accept the charges from Quebec Regional Prison in English, then again in French. The whole crew was still at Eric’s bakery, helping him through the mid-morning rush fueled by coffee and pastries.

“Hi, Papa,” Jack said, sitting down in the tiny break room.

“Jack, buddy,” Bob said. “How are you?”

Jack was scared. Confused. Happy? “Good,” he said.

“Tell me what’s new,” Bob said. “Still seeing that guy in Providence?”

“Uh, no,” Jack said. “We, uh, broke up. Hey, I’ve got a question for you. So you saw the news?”

“Someone stole the Stanley Cup?” Bob said laughing. “Yes, and seems to have done a better job than your old man.”

“So my friends and I were talking, and we were wondering who would pay a million dollars for the Cup. And I said you used to play hockey and might have some ideas.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Jack,” Bob said slowly and carefully. “I have read every news article associated with the theft and I have given three different interviews about it and no one, not once, has mentioned a million dollars.”

Shit, shit, shit.

“It was a hypothetical question,” Jack said stammering. “Why would you steal the Cup if you weren’t going to sell it, right?”

Bob didn’t say anything for a moment. Jack wondered if he should hang up.

“You need to fix this, son,” Bob said sighing. “But whatever happens, I love you.”

“Ok, Papa,” Jack said, his hand shaking so bad he could barely hit the end call button.

He walked back to the kitchen where Lardo was happily icing cupcakes and Ransom and Holster were eating cookies.

“These were broken, man,” Holster said defensively.

“How’s the old man?” Shitty asked.

“He knows what I did,” Jack said. “He told me to fix it.”

“What are we going to do, bro?” Shitty asked.

Jack nodded, he knew what the right thing to do was. “I’m going to give it to Kent.”

 

**16 / KENT**

There was a staccato knock on the door. This was it, this is when the NHL police stormed his house, found the Cup and Kent went to prison for-fucking-ever. And after he’d just scored the winning goal in a Stanley Cup final last night. The Falcs were 3-1 and heading back to Vegas in two days, and Kent was probably going to be skating second line. It was everything he’d dreamed about, but he couldn’t stop thinking that if he didn’t get the Cup back to the NHL, he wasn’t going to get to skate around the ice holding it above his head like he had been doing in his dreams since he was four years old.

“It’s me,” Jack said. “Jack Zimmermann.” The idiot.

Oh it’s a setup. Jack was the one person - besides Carl - who might have suspected what Kent had done and he was here now and after he knew that Kent was sleeping around on him. This was bad.

“It’s not a set up,” Jack said.

A different voice said, “Saying that just makes it sound like a setup.”

“We brought pie,” Jack said.

Well, Kent didn’t fancy falling to his death by climbing out the bathroom window, so maybe opening the door to Jack was the better option. Definitely don’t need the neighbors to hear things, suspect things. And pie?

Kent opened the door a crack and saw Jack and some blond kid, cute.

“You look like hell,” Jack said as he pushed the door open and walked in. The man with him, came too with a giant pink box, like he was hauling around a wedding cake or something. He was wearing the shortest shorts Kent had ever seen and a tank top that said “Whip it, Whip it Good” with a whisk on it.

“Eric, Kent. Kent, Eric,” Jack said making the introductions with a wave of his hand.

“You don’t understand what pressure I’ve been under,” Kent said. He sat heavily onto his couch and put his head into his hands.

“Don’t care,” Eric said, setting the big pink box on the coffee table where it thudded. “We came to give something to you.”

Kent looked up. “What?”  
  
Jack and Eric worked in unison and pulled the pink box off.

“That looks like the Stanley Cup,” Kent said. Which was ridiculous because Kent had the Cup stashed in his closet behind ten years of old ice skates.

“You have our replica,” Jack said. “We’re here to give you the real one.”

“You … wait ... what?”

“You have our fake.” Eric looked positively elated.

“You’re just going to give it to me?” Kent’s voice had gone higher as he was more confused.

“I stole it for a dumb reason,” Jack said, “and I’m done with it.”

“So now you’re going to call the cops and I get arrested and go to prison with your dad?”

Jack shook his head. “No, we are giving it to you in the hopes that you do the right thing.”

Eric was pulling on Jack’s arm. “Let’s get out of here,” and with that Jack and Eric left his condo and the Stanley Cup on his coffee table.

Kent stared at the closed door and then back at the Cup. Back and forth, back and forth. He finally pulled his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through his contacts and with a deep breath, hit the call button.

 

 

 

**EPILOGUE / JACK**

Jack’s phone beeped and he accepted the call from his dad. Eric was still asleep, his arm around Jack’s middle and his leg throw across Jack’s thighs. Jack was trying not to move so he didn’t wake him on his day off.

“So I see the Stanley Cup was turned in by an anonymous source,” Bob said.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “I saw that, too.”

“Hmmm,” Bad Bob said. When Jack didn’t say anything, he changed the subject. “So how are you doing, kid?”

Jack had been thinking about that question a lot. “I’m good,” he said, meaning it. “I like my coaching job, I’m seeing someone new, and I have the greatest friends in the world.”

Bob cleared his throat. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “It’s not like you to speak that positively about your life. It’s a big change.”

“Cup magic,” Jack said.

“Cup magic?” Bad Bob repeated back dryly.

“It showed me what I should have already known.”

“The Cup will do that, but we should never talk about it again,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I am really happy for you.”

“Thanks, Papa,” Jack said. “I’m happy for me, too.”

They talked for a while more and when Jack hung up he realized he had talked well over half of the time, which was a first in a long time. He poked Eric, who hadn’t moved. “I’m going to go for a run,” he whispered.

“Bring back blueberries so I can make those Pee Wee kids scones for their game tonight,” Eric said not removing his leg or arm from Jack.

“They need protein before a game,” Jack said.

“I made them blueberry scones last time and they won, so I have to do it again,” Eric said, bringing a hand up to blindly pat Jack across the face.

That was true. “Ok, a couple pounds of blueberries coming up,” Jack said. He wiggled his way free and put on his running clothes. As he left he looked back and saw Eric had completely taken over his side of the bed. “And Mrs. Smith is going to be here in an hour to go over your kitchen redesign, so you might want to put some clothes on.” Eric waved his fingers at Jack.

Jack smiled. He had a great boyfriend, a supportive family, and a job he loved. And he owed none of it to the Stanley Cup.

“Hey, Jack,” Eric’s sleepy voice called out. Jack paused. “I’d steal a hundred Stanley Cups for you.”

“You’d better not,” Jack said and closed the bedroom door behind him as he headed outside into the cool air of a beautiful day.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Shitty’s _but even if this was possible, you’d need a dozen people_ bit is taken from the “Ocean’s 8” trailer. A few other lines are taken from the comic as well. 
> 
> If you like this artwork, you can reblog it from here: [Poster](https://ctrlpunk.tumblr.com/post/180222336589/for-the-omgcpbbmore-heres-my-second-art-for) and [moodboard](https://ctrlpunk.tumblr.com/post/180222390074/jack-aeshtic-board-for-numinousnumbat-zimmermann).
> 
> I am on [tumblr](https://numinousnumbat.tumblr.com/).


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